Point Non Plus
by Hikari no Chibi
Summary: Regency AU! With Napoleon looming and Neal gone, Mr. Gold has no choice but to toil away exposing French informants and spy rings, hoping to turn the tide of the war. At a dinner party for the debauched and misbehaved, Gold weaves his way in and out of the lives of his suspects, but he finds more than expected in the beautiful Mrs. Lacey.
1. Chapter 1

**I. Mr. Gold**

Napoleon conquered and Gold seethed.

He'd never sought glory, had no need of further riches, and yet found himself (for Neal's sake) bitterly embroiled in the déclassé toil of intelligence-gathering. That was a laugh in itself – English intelligence. As if that herd of kitchen-cats in over-tight frock coats could be classified as a spy-ring. Their officers were about as well informed of the conflict as the old, mad King – God save him – and the rest of it fell down to a few good men in the Royal Navy. Perhaps Napoleon would do them all a service and drop dead of apoplexy.

The old wig-headed powder-puffs, old faces unchanged since his own youth, hadn't even sensed _la Terreur_ before heads rolled in the streets, and the younger generation – the Pinks – hadn't even enough sense to order-up clothes that fitted them. Was it to be the burden of one sensible generation, grown up on horror stories of the French atrocities and suspicion in the ballroom to set things right? It was a steep price, almost too steep; the fervid panic of paranoia and heartbreak had nearly devoured him the first time.

Gold had been a young gentleman then, newly married to a French refugee on whom he'd doted all his pities, and whom he hoped might come to love him for more than her security. She'd vanished the very moment her passports were in order, eloped with some merchant-mercenary, leaving just him and the baby. The divorce had cost him a pretty penny, but at least Millicente had given him Neal. It was a mercy, really; he wasn't sure Neal could've forgiven him if he'd turned in his mother for High Treason left her to hang at the Old Bailey.

They might have lived peacefully, well rid of any continental interests, save for Neal's blasted fit of patriotism. He'd flog the man who'd commissioned the lad to within an inch of his life if he ever met him on the street. Was his son to perish in the wake of some bleeding Corsican with the gall to call himself an Emperor? The devil could take Napoleon and his half of Russia with him for all Gold cared, but his boy – his only son – had donned the red coat against all sensibility, out of some woeful fit of moral duty, and Gold would see the world hang if the boy was not returned in one piece.

Neal, like his mother, run off in the night. And his son had the gall to call _him_ coward! Lud, but it chaffed. A man of one and forty had no business enlisting as an officer, nor did his only son and heir, yet that's precisely what Neal Bartholomew Gold had done. At three and twenty, his life was forfeit for a daft cause, mandated by a Regent-King. Even now, Gold knew that he would recall the boy if he could, but it was not within his influence. Instead, he found himself doing the only thing that he could to help his boy's cause: conspiracy.

It was the guise of the rake which suited him, dressed to the nines in a tightly-tailored frock of red brocade, a devilishly daring cravat of gold – folded to emulate one of those demmed Brummel monstrosities – and breeches which cupped him rather tighter than he liked, of the requisite crème linen. The boots, and the boots alone, he could tolerate – good, Corinthian leather; the boots might, in fact, prove to be the highlight of his evening – it certainly was not his companion's dinner conversation.

Mrs. Millcroft, drat her, had seen to pair him with the notoriously lush Mrs. Lacey, a woman whose base manner at table could only be forgiven in light of her vigor for billiards. Her husband, the Colonel, was – of course – not permitted in decent company to escort his own wife to table, which Gold found to be something of a mercy. As bawdy as that gentleman was, Gold preferred the taciturn, (but lovely) dullards of the lady.

When forced to speak, she sounded as though she must be either the stupidest of her sex or the cleverest; when Gold imagined that her disinterested, sighing responses – only after sufficient prodding to rouse a bear in winter – were rather more at her companions' expense than her own, her company became almost tolerable. Certainly it was preferable to Miss Clime, whose voice would begin over the first course and run at a gallop until the footmen had cleared the cheese plates – but only by a small margin.

Private parties were, on the whole, disgustingly dull, but someone in attendance at the Millcroft household was undeniably guilty of passing information exposing the English ranks, and it was now down to Gold to suss the culprit out. Given the speed and efficiency at which word slouched along in the country, he doubted the mission would make much never mind – Wellington merely liked to feel himself useful. So he'd sent a gentleman to a gentleman's home to blunder about the truth until one or both parties stumbled.

To be doing anything – anything at all, no matter how trivial – was preferable to nothing. It was for Neal, whose nothings – no letters, no word – struck him like stones.

In attendance at the Millcroft soiree this weekend, he counted a total of thirty, in addition to the eponymous household. However, only a handful of those were regular attendees at the orgies, and so it was on them which he would focus. Gold wished he was not so often among the patrons of these same parlors and drawing rooms, but such was his lot, and his quarry was sly to have hid under his nose for so long – though he still held some hope that they were both operating in the blind.

Of all the gouty men with their mistresses and wives, only seven remained likely in Gold's mind: Sir Keith Reeve, a squire to some cow-pat in Nottingham and a notorious drunkard in need of coin; Colonel George Lacey, a gambling man and a dueler retired from the military around the time of Napoleon's uprising; his wife, Mrs. Lacey, the undeniably lovely, low-born French woman who found a suspicious sort of wit in her wine; Lord Spencer Nolan, a severe baron with half of Parliament in hand, but who otherwise kept his widower's temperance and severity; his son, Sir James, a dandy whose tailor bills and debts had quadrupled in Napoleon's wake; Sir James' long-time lover, Miss Jacqueline Clime – a mushroom if ever he'd met one, and an actress with ambitions to climb; and finally his hostess, Mrs. Cora Millcroft – aided, no doubt, by her milquetoast husband, Sir Henry. (Gold found it both a blessing and mercy their girl, Miss Millcroft, had been away at school from the tender age of sixteen, lest she transform into the unfortunate image of either one of them.)

He did not like his odds of success one ruddy bit, but liked even less the possibility that Neal's platoon would be out-maneuvered by anyone whom he held in such contempt. None of the meandering ponces with whom he dined that evening had the mark of the mastermind, yet there was irrefutably an agent of the Emperor among them. The problem Gold had encountered in this rat-warren of iniquity, notorious for its lechery and profanity, was that each of his suspects had something to gain – too much, in some cases, but they could not all be guilty.

**II. Sir Reeve**

"Oh, Madame…" Mr. Reeve moaned, pressing his whiskery cheek closer to the gorgeous bit of woman he'd managed to corner. Mrs. Lacey had enchanted him the very moment he saw her, though he could not quite remember when they'd met or what it was that drew him toward her, and her fool husband had wagered and lost her in a game of cards. He was owed a night of the man's marital rights, and meant to collect in one of the Millcroft's many bedrooms; the woman herself, though, had already rebuked him thrice.

"You've snuff on your nostril and lips, Sir," she replied. He hastened to sweep them clean with his shirt-cuff. Lud, he'd forgotten to check after his last dip into the box – one always had to check when one's hands were prone to shake.

"A drink, then?" he offered, proffering his own glass of whiskey.

She liked a drink, wasn't stuffy like those other ladies in their assembly halls, done up in doilies of white chiffon, sipping tea and champagne. Mrs. Lacey wore blue (the best gowns cut in the most daring styles, sans petticoat and pelisse, so the outline of long legs and bare, slender arms might always be seen) and enjoyed the grape, and if that wasn't proof of her hot, French blood yearning to be touched… Yet she refused him his due, and turned up that delicate nose at his cup. Perhaps he should have chosen her particular favorite, a full-bodied, white wine? But wine tended to sour his stomach.

"Don't tempt that brute of yours to beat you again," he begged, pressing closer to the column of her neck for her sake. "You know I'm owed you, Isabelle, and I do not like to see you bruise…"

"I know no such thing, and acknowledge no such claim," she said, going still in his arms as he strove to make love to her against the very wall. It could be so much nicer in a well-fitted bedchamber, with a feather mattress and satin tick, but he'd take his hours as he could – she'd held his eye (while he'd held none of her) for far too long.

"There's a good girl," he whispered. She'd capitulate gracefully, thank God, and she'd enjoy him – he'd make her like it, instead of mauling the creature like the Colonel…

"Sir Reeve," a voice with a brogue interrupted from behind him, "a word, if you please. I do hope I'm not interrupting – it's a demmed nuisance, interruption."

"Ain't it just," Reeve groaned.

He knew that voice, it belonged to a whippish, lean Scotsman with a reputation for beating his inferiors ruthlessly with an ebony and gold-gilt cane. The disruption broke Isabelle's stillness, and she'd already slipped away before he thought of what to say. It couldn't be helped – a gentleman rarely settled his accounts with any alacrity, but Gold held his notes in abundance of 500 sovereigns, and – as he knew – Rumford Gold always got paid.

"Sir Reeve, I do believe you've left our dear Mrs. Lacey quite disheveled; one might wonder if you wanted her husband to learn of your… alliance, flaunting it so openly."

"George already knows, you blackguard, so don't think of blackmailing me. The good Golonel is the one who lost her to me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The other week, in a card game," Keith replied smugly. Let him make of that what he would, ha! Sir Keith Reeve did win hands of cards, sometimes – his bad luck was starting to change. "You'd know if you hadn't been off boxing or sheep-shearing, or whatever it is you Scottish chaps get up to."

The moment the words left his lips, he knew he'd gone too far. The infamous, golden handle of the older man's cane collided violently with his windpipe.

"I'd watch that tongue if I were you," he snarled, and Keith could see his crooked, gold-filled teeth hanging like the fangs of an animal.

"Y-yes.." Sir Reeve choked out, tongue thick and half-useless with alcohol.

He'd grounds to challenge the old wolf-hound now, Keith knew he had, and the legality of the practice was nothing to the guests of a secluded country house. If Gold died, then his debts would be forgiven and he'd be lauded the hero. But he'd only dueled once – in his youth – and lost, losing the regard of his lady in the bargain, so he took the bitter insult and drank it down.

Gold seemed to regard him for a moment, then eased off the cane. "We've accounts to settle. I'd like to know how you propose to pay me."

Bloody hell, but it was ungentlemanly of him to demand it so plainly.

"I… I don't know. I'll win tonight, and—"

"You've no income or allowance? No developing scheme? No hope of a windfall looming?"

"None, sir. And the estate won't pay out again until spring. When I win tonight, I'll…"

"Very well," Gold replied, sated. "You're a fortunate man tonight."

"Yes," Keith preened. He was fortunate. He was, he would be.

As Mr. Gold turned to leave, he brushed the shoulders of his jacket almost lazily and tossed the unfashionably long hair he favored to the side. Then he spoke.

"Oh, and I'll be having that marker you hold for Mrs. Lacey. Call it a good-faith payment, worth… oh, we shan't insult the lady. Let us say that she is worth 200 pounds, shall we?"

"You can't!" He'd been so close, could still remember the scent of rose-water and salt…

"I can, and I shall," said Gold, ushering him toward the writing desk where he was compelled to settle the claim in writing. Both men signed it, dusted the ink with a bit of pounce, and Gold returned to the party.

Sir Reeve could only scowl as he poured himself another drink.

**III. Colonel Lacey**

George scowled at his gaming partners – the lot of them pinks with too much to lose and little experience; it was just the sort of odds that Colonel Lacey liked. The dice were notoriously fickle ladies, but ladies to whom he'd happily devoted his life. The same could not be said of his wife.

The Colonel took stock of the room, noting poor Sir Henry asleep on the chaise longue as a gaggle of mistresses and wives gossiped over his lolling snores. The room could use some animation, it mustn't fall solely to their old host to keep the tables lively, and it was just such an opportunity as he'd been instructing Belle not to pass up. A song, a reel, or even a game would be just the thing to get the gentlemen back to gambling, but where was Mrs. Lacey? Abandoned him at the earliest opportunity to skulk in the billiards room, no doubt. He'd give her a cuff about the ear if she didn't make herself useful within the hour.

A bawdy tune, a full glass, and a winning hand… these were the simple pleasures of a gentleman-soldier. He was just about to excuse himself and find his hussy (who should know by now, if she weren't so obstinate, that she ought to deport herself more to his tastes) when none other than Mr. Rumford Gold drew up a chair.

"Might I join your game, Colonel?" he inquired, settling himself on the ornate furniture. The man's breeches did not strain to bend as some of the younger bucks' did – an essential detail to the tailoring when one intended to play all evening – and George very much hoped that Gold meant to sit and wager for a while.

"As you like," George replied, dipping a little snuff up to his face. It was devilishly perfumed stuff, but bracing, and the ladies did not care to be around cigar smoke, even in such mixed company. The other chaps lingering around the game seemed to sense that they'd swum out of their depth, and they made a quick exit as the proper men settled in to play.

Gold would fleece them all, the bleeding menace, if given half the chance, but the Colonel felt lucky.

"What do you say to a match of _Conspirateurs_ for a change of pace?" Gold offered.

"I say damn the French and damn their games. It's Hazard or nothing."

"Aye, and damn their armies!" Gold agreed.

They both emptied their glasses, and George began to feel a little heady.

"It's a shame, a ruddy shame," he said, "that good English blood is spilling to put-down another Frenchie. I thought Robespierre might have done us a favor and sent the whole country to the guillotine."

"Well, certainly not the whole country. Your own wife is French, if I'm not mistaken?"

"And a worse mistake was never made. Blast it, though, she did have a devil of a dowry. No, Sir, you'll find my wife possesses all the natural weakness of her race and all the low cunning of her sex, but I've taught her to mind her place. By God, I have. Nothing's worse than a Frenchie."

"No French games, then; Hazard it is! And what will you wager me?" the Scotsman asked him.

"Will and odds stake of twenty pounds suffice?" the Colonel preened. He was up for the evening and in no short supply of funds – whatever the case. Twenty was bold, but not unwieldy, and he might persuade the old man to part with more as they increased the stakes.

"Why not forty?" Gold countered, and George felt lucky. He waved over one of Mrs. Millcroft's footmen and had the lad pour him another drink, dragged old Spencer up to bank, and had the tiger leave the decanter as his charm for the evening.

**IV. Mrs. Lacey**

Belle took another gulp of wine and eased herself up to the billiards table. She felt exposed; a lamb sheered for slaughter, striving to escape the abattoir. Imbibing helped. Every day since the war started she'd felt as though George meant to butcher her, yet even deprived of happiness and petticoats, she felt a tentative security with the heavy billiards cue in her palms.

George's behavior since retiring was meant as a punishment for her origins, she knew it was, but also knew (in her heart) that she and George had never been happy, it was only that they had not been together so frequently while he remained in service to his Majesty.

She almost winced to think of the sudden change, and the familiar weight of the cue felt very calming indeed. Belle imagined it was something akin to what a man felt holding a musket or a saber, and sorely wished for a chance to bollock Reeve with it.

Sadly, the cue was not meant for a cudgel, and it was her turn at carombole. The simple geometries of the green-felt table hearkened of _Opticks_ and simple logic, the pleasures her youth. She took another drink to brace her, certain either George or Reeve would come looking for her in the next hour, and settled into teaching Lord Nolan's son a thing or two about strategy.

Sir James would enlist in a heartbeat, eager to wear the red as he seemed, but of course he could not. There was no other son to take his place, should he fall, and so all of the vicious energies so becoming in young officers turned toward more transient things. Within a few turns, Belle had him shuffling the rails like an awkward mooncalf in the ballroom, and she took the opportunity to survey the room.

To her surprise, neither the lascivious Sir Reeve nor her own boorish husband had come to strong-arm her; rather, one of George's gambling partners (a man more deplorable in deed and reputation than any of the other miscreants he associated with) had entered the room. Mr. Gold was watching her.

"A daring game for a lady, Madame," he commented in English prickled with the deep bellows of a Highland brogue. Belle adored the English accents, though she'd soured considerably toward the neat, clipped syllables of George and his ilk, but still – to ears which had heard only French during their formative years, it was beautiful. The slight lilt to her own voice still hearkened of something foreign, though she hoped anyone who did not know her would be hard-pressed to define it as Parisian.

"But she plays it mercilessly," replied Sir James, sparing her the necessity of speaking. It had bothered her, once, when people spoke over or for her. Now it meant only that she missed an opportunity for an altercation with George, and she'd embraced the opportunity to seldom speak. "She's skint me."

"Perhaps you would indulge an old man in a game, Mrs. Lacey?"

Belle knew the rest; all of Cora's orgies would eventually fall to women in laps, clandestine giggling, and gowns draped over divans. No man with so dark and hungry a look in his eye had ever wanted anything like a game of billiards from her, and Belle gripped her cue-stick tighter. The question, then, was whether she would be safer if she refused him.

"By your leave, Sir James?" he added, making a little bow to her inept partner.

"Well, I—" started James, but he was startled by a livid Miss Cline stomping into the room, and she dragged him away before consent or contention could be given. Somewhere in the house men were shouting, and Belle could only hope that the fracas would keep her husband entertained.

"A game, then," Belle agreed, suddenly totally alone with the gentleman.

They began their game in relative silence, each sizing up the other, though to his credit his eyes did not linger over-long on her form. For his part, Mr. Gold looked every inch powerful. His clothes suited him, his presence preceded him, and he played brilliantly. She was shocked to find, when he drew alongside her, that the compact economy of his form made him appear taller – in reality he stood only a few inches above her; his face was close.

"Are you happy in England, Mrs. Lacey?" he whispered, warm brown eyes piercing her blue ones. "It must be terribly difficult for you with the rest of your family in France."

"Honestly, I prefer England, I think. I came here when I was young, and married George when I turned sixteen. My father died, so you see… it's just the Colonel and me."

She gulped down more wine to keep the tears at bay; the Reign of Terror's shadow was a long, sour ordeal, but her father was clever and had her safe when they sacked the Bastille.

"Colonel Lacey is a heavy-hand, I think," replied Gold. The words had the slight caress of a question in them. "No one would blame you for wanting to return there one day."

The warmth that had threatened to blossom on Belle's cheeks chilled immediately. He was testing her! The wretch was testing her loyalty, probably on George's orders! It was all part of some new, nauseating game. She knew Gold was a callous, merciless sort of man, but she'd never thought he could be so cruel.

She felt her face twist into the familiar visage of apathy, even as her heart clenched and her stomach roiled.

"The Colonel and I are very happy."

"I must say, I prefer France myself. Paris in winter, Marseilles by the sea…"

"I wouldn't know."

"No, I suppose not. If it's not too indelicate, Mrs. Lacey, I was hoping that you might allow me to show you something," said Gold, reaching into his breast pocket.

She winced despite herself, but he produced only a small scrap of paper with a few scrawling lines jotted on it.

"I took this off of Reeve this evening. He tells me that your husband wagered your favors in a card game."

Belle clutched her cue about the base and tried not to look frantically toward the door, toward escape. She could slam the butt onto the leg he nursed and run if she had to.

"Unfortunately, my favors are not among the King's recognized currencies. I'm afraid George has quite forgotten, in delight with my dowry, that I am not a bank."

"And yet you remain virtuous."

"Yes. We are _married_," she said, mustering all the conviction she could for what was meant to be a sacred and beautiful union, an institution meant to be honored. "I am no adulteress, and I'll thank you to tell George not to send his friends in his stead to insult me."

"I meant no insult, my lady, and I'm not your husband's friend. I only wanted to return this to your keeping. I hope you will forgive me for speaking of it, but I thought you might rest easier knowing your company was not… expected by Sir Reeve."

Belle fought to retain her composure as Mr. Gold clumsily excused himself from the room. She wasn't sure if she wanted to have a drink or scream, but the strange sensation of smiling again brought a hopeful comfort to her.

**V. Lord Nolan**

As the night wore on, Spencer excused himself from the gaming. He neither valued nor cultivated his reputation as a sober, severe one, who tolerated all manner of debauchery without partaking, but it made him popular as a card-dealer and dice-bank, which served his devices. The role paid, a gratuity among gentlemen settled with no real alacrity, and if his estates were stumbling then at least he remained in pocket for the necessities.

It was a shame about Jimmy's extravagances, but that – he supposed – was the natural result of rearing him with governesses and nannies. Want of a mother to illustrate the perils of household economy was hardly the boy's fault, was it? Besides, he hadn't the heart to deny James, and a secret proclivity for trade with a notoriously rich Greek kept them afloat.

Nearing the end of his life, Spencer found could tolerate the blow to the family name if their association with trade became public knowledge; leaving his son with nothing and parceling off their lands, though – that was untenable. Legacies mattered, individual infractions did not.

Still, he would have to look toward securing Jimmy a wife. The desire for a long and prosperous bachelorhood was a well-vetted vice; Spencer should have set a better example, so the lad would have more incentive to get in a family way.

James' Miss Clime was, thankfully, not the type of woman a gentleman married; she made a fair sporting partner in the field, a huntress the game tables, and possessed fair features with a good figure by anyone's reckoning, but she was no Baroness. He could not see her sitting patiently to listen as the servants voiced their needs. Lady Nolan had been an angel, incomparable to the likes of Mrs. Millcroft or Mrs. Lacey. Slatternly women like them belonged in village taverns and brothels, not presiding over the great houses of the county.

It had passed three in the morning, and he'd not seen James in nearly an hour. The lad did have his vices, and Spencer toyed with the thought of teaching through suffering. He could refuse to pay his son's debts; he could force the boy to marry and sober, or face poverty, but he knew his son. James was entirely too impulsive for that, he'd be enlisted and shooting at Frenchmen within the week.

A yawn jarred Spencer from his thoughts. It wouldn't do to excuse himself to rest too early, but he could scarcely stomach the draping embraces and intimacies which so often evolved from Cora's contemptible parties.

"I see you've spent another night playing bank," remarked Gold's voice from somewhere behind him.

"Indeed. I didn't hear you come in, my friend. Care to rest your weary bones with me? It seems the rest of the party has left us old boys behind this evening," Spencer replied. He liked Gold, generally. The man had a good head for numbers, and he didn't let his emotions get in the way of business arrangements or gentlemen's agreements. It was better that way – clearer cut, and less likely to lead to bankruptcy.

"The whole country has left us old boys behind, and shipped our sons off to France to die."

"Not my son," he replied. It was a terse subject – he'd nearly forgotten that Mr. Neal Gold had enlisted to fight.

"No, you're quite right. Still, though, I imagine someone's found the profit in War, a way to navigate blood and money without losing rest at night. They wouldn't continue the dratted thing if it wasn't good to somebody, would they? Prinny could go duel Bonaparte, and we'd all raise-up the Tricolore and play _La Marseillaise_ by sunrise."

Spencer had to chuckle at that. Odd's fish, but Gold was probably right.

"War's an awful mess, and expensive. If you wager on the winner, you might as well be playing dice. The supply-lines, though… I imagine they've got the best of all sides," Lord Nolan replied. Perhaps he could convince Gold to invest? That would certainly do him some good with his partners, wouldn't it?

"And you don't play dice, do you?" observed Gold, as though he were seeing him for the very first time. "Just the bank."

"Just so," Spencer agreed. "Though I'm glad enough when the game comes to an end. I'm old and tired, it's a young man's vice."

"War or dice?" asked Gold.

"Both, I suppose. It's all I can do to keep James out of the fray. The boy's got his mother's spirit, and none of her good sense." That was the truth too, no matter how hard it was to admit.

"If you don't mind me saying, Spence, I think you've quite failed to keep him out of the dice halls," and they both shared a chuckle over it.

"I'll settle for keeping him out of the one that can kill him, then; though those high-spirited bucks are more likely to pull a pistol over nonsense, if given half the chance, than some officer sitting in his tent. Dreadful, simply dreadful. Old George goes off in the head, puts an end to dueling, and suddenly it becomes the fad with Prinny."

"They are always doing what we tell them not to," Gold agreed somberly. Spencer felt for him then, really he did. It must be terrible to have his child so far removed from him, unsure whether or not he'd met a gristly, violent end.

He was about to bring the subject back around to investment when his son (and all his son's friends) trooped into the house – all of them shouting like wild men from somewhere in the foyer.

"Speak of the devils," Spencer said.

"Aye," agreed Gold, and they rushed out to join the fray.


	2. Chapter 2

**VI. Sir James**

"Now chaps, we've a few hours to dawn yet. There's no need of a posse, we will simply have a quiet, dignified disagreement between gentlemen, and God will sort the rest!"

James loved the tumultuous passion that devoured his entourage when there was the promise of bloodshed, and the attention it garnered for him at court was glorious as any Roman Triumph – he was their God-King, Emperor of the Cravat, and let the hangers-on render unto Caesar what was Caesar's. With the Gaulish brute in question, he had the right of challenge, and his entire flock of popinjays knew it, excellently. But the moral right was nothing compared to the satisfaction of honor at gun-point.

His last two duels had been a poor showing; as the other man had the right of him, and had fired into the dirt, he'd been obligated to scratch as well. God save England if the dissatisfactory sight of two gentlemen firing pistols at paces into the dirt became the thing! Dreadfully boring to see, but often excellent in the re-telling at parties, so at least that was something.

He'd not been cut for a life of Oxford dust or the Church, and – if he was honest – he would probably not make good on the Barony. Best to fight the good fight, sup well and keep a pin in his tailors before he expanded about the middle, took his seat in Parliament, and bloated up to the size of Prinny. The best coats already required a valet to wedge in – not at all suited for shooting – and James made a note to have his man help him change before the morning. Excitement – the fine art of a gentleman's leisure – made for very expensive sport, but dueling – like all sport – required a sense of daring and accoutrement!

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm off to prepare myself!" James called back, as the crowd around him cheered and jarred. "Now, now, there's nothing like honor on an empty stomach, with tarnished brass. If you take away the pomp, it's a simple act of murder –" they really lauded him for that remark, and it took him a few moments to reel their enthusiasm in.

"So, gentlemen, I must bid you a temporary farewell!" They booed a bit, but let him go. It was a sobering thing, honor at gunpoint, though what little sobriety he'd found could certainly be drowned in champagne over breakfast as they celebrated his victory.

He'd killed before, in a bare-knuckles boxing match; he'd dueled and wounded two men with sabers, though they'd lingered for weeks afterward; it felt different to think of the impersonal flourish of a pistol, though he'd not ruin the high moods of his friends. Let them cheer and bray; he'd still accept their laurels graciously.

James caught a glance of himself in the mirror as he swept into one of Sir Henry's studies – no, this cravat and jacket would not do for a man who meant to live through the week; James went to work oiling and loading his pistols and thought on which knots he might like. The Millcrofts had a groom to handle both chores, certainly there was someone whom he could wake – or his own tiger, perhaps – but the tactile proof of his desires and the acrid smell of the powder focused him better than temperance ever could.

He'd only just finished lying out his first brace for inspection when the door to his chamber burst open without ceremony.

"Odd's fish, boy, what was that tumult in the Great Hall?"

"Good morning to you as well, father," James grinned, shifting some papers on Sir Henry's table. Just a lot of dodgy old Latin or something equally foreign, certainly nothing that couldn't be spared to camouflage a gun.

"Don't you good morning me, Jim. You've raised a mob, and now I find you sitting alone and brooding. What is the meaning of this? Our hostess will be demmed displeased," his father scolded, and his eyes were trained right to the stock of a pistol, bright brass shining out from the table. Of course he had noticed, but by the grace of God he would not say anything. No, that was not the Spencer way – better to have some grounds for deniability.

"You can't displease old Henry, so long as he's got a soft place to sleep," James retorted, lazily shifting another page over the offending object.

"I hope I'm not intruding?" Bloody hell, but it was Gold as well, lurking in his father's shadow. That'd take the fight out of anybody, a pair of old curs bristling, threatening to spoil his fight.

"No, no, you stay for this Gold. Maybe you can talk some sense of decorum into him, God knows I've tried. Jim, what have you to say for yourself?" his father grimaced, beckoning his old friend into the room.

"There's nothing more to be said, father. Words have failed us, and we are men of action, living in the age of action," he replied, flippant as he dared. The old man might be no end of seriousness and sobriety, but he'd come down hard if he caught his only son dueling outright in the garden.

"Oh, I don't know… Words do have power, in the right hands," supplied Gold. James glared at him.

"In the right ears, rather," James corrected, with his usual air of defiance. "But who has the time these days? When there are pretty ladies and witty gentlemen aplenty in Society to amuse us, the best bred need not say much of anything. I have led a mob into the foyer and I have dispersed them just as easily. That is the end of it, surely?"

His father seemed at a loss, but Gold pressed him: "Do you suggest that the art of interlocution is beneath the notice of accomplished ladies and well-born gentlemen?"

James just snorted. "Oh, who knows what I've said. I haven't the patience to mince words with you tonight, Goldie, there's still sport to be had."

"Nor the lexicon, one might think," the older man replied darkly.

"That's dashed unkind of you to say," said George, interrupting just as James had grown bored of listening. "What the devil's provoked you this time, Jimmy?"

"Does it matter?" muttered Gold, bowing curtly, and then turning to leave. James rather hoped his father would follow suit; he desperately hated being made to explain himself.

**VII. Miss Clime**

Jack had wasted no time in rousing a chamber maid to run and fetch her a few shards from the ice house, and as she reclined in a private parlor with a cool compress at her temple she'd never been gladder that the Millcroft's grand manor kept so many well-stocked luxuries close by. It usually bothered her in its long-lived grandeur, an amalgamation of wings and bygone eras; her own home would be furnished much more tastefully, with only the most modern apartments. And an ice house, she decided. A private ice house was a necessity.

She'd be very cross indeed if that buffoon had bruised her, the bloodied nose was insult enough, and she'd intended to ride out with the hunting party in the morning. Well, she could hardly do that with one eye swollen shut! Bad enough his tarty wife had shown her up for the evening – no one could deny that Mrs. Lacey outshone Miss Clime in their sky-blue, close-cut gowns, and what a misfortune to have dressed so similarly – but for drunken Colonel Lacey to have struck her! It was incorrigible.

Jack could and would have shot the scoundrel herself, right on the spot, if decorum had not demanded that she play the part of the victim and cower. James would handle it for her, and that pleased her. He was ever so charming and not known for his mercies.

Poor Mrs. Lacey, though. Tarty dress-thief or no, there could be no doubt that the blow had been meant for her. Two slight, brunette women in similar mode… the faux pas stung more than the injury, and Jack reached lazily for her wine glass to wash away the rage. There was nothing she could do about any of it, and she'd do herself no favors by nagging at James. He'd shoot the man, and that would be that. Mrs. Lacey certainly wouldn't mind the loss too terribly.

Jack grimaced again and tried the tender flesh with her fingers. The ice had done something for the swelling, undoubtedly, but it still ached. The Colonel was a brigand, entirely too large a man to permit him into polite company. Even if James did not kill him, which seemed unlikely, it might be enough to have him and his wife snubbed from society – or it would have been, had Miss Jacqueline Clime been a _somebody_.

How odious that the likes of Mrs. Lacey should, upon being born and wed to good families, outrank the victim of her husband's bullying. She was an actress, mistress to the man who would one day rule half the county, a sports-woman and a wit, lauded by everyone in London. Yet Mrs. Lacey had been the one to receive vouchers for Almack's in her youth, and Mrs. Lacey had been the better seat at Cora's teas in the afternoon.

The dowdy old blue-stocking had (very obviously) rather be left alone in Mr. Millcroft's library than asked to prance and play and recite poetry in the evening, yet here she was at every turn to upstage poor Jacqueline. And no petticoats – one could make out the shape of her thigh in even the poorest light! The woman would not be half scandalously popular without her husband to prod her. Then they'd see where the real wit and beauty lie.

Jack heard footsteps on the floorboards and righted herself, arranging her limbs just so – to bring about the look gentlemen always found so alluring.

Three knocks sounded at the door.

"Entree-vous!" she called.

"Ah, Miss Cline. I'd no idea you spoke French," came the gentleman's reply. It was only old Gold, dash it all, but it never hurt a lady's chances to flatter the men with their hands on the purse strings.

"Oui, je parler fraçais trés bien," she purred, batting her eyelashes prettily. "It is so good of you to pop in and visit me, I'm afraid I'm still a bit of an invalid – you will excuse me for not rising, non?" she asked, coquetting her head to showcase the hurt for his inspection and sympathies.

"Of course, mademoiselle, and you must forgive me the intrusion – I am so sorry to see you are unwell. I must admit the circumstances of your injury remain a mystery to me."

"Would you believe that it was the brutish act of a gentleman of our mutual acquaintance? I cannot repeat the details before James has settled his claim, but I am certain that you know who I mean. The lush ape mistook me for his wife and struck my face!"

"Mistook you for his wife, you say?" Gold seemed genuinely interested at that notion, and Jack felt a little lost in the intensity of his gaze. She'd never held the man's attention so fully before, it was almost disconcerting. "Are you quite alright?"

"I shall be by morning, I think," she demurred, pouting a little for effect. "Can you imagine it, though? _Me_, mistaken for an _older_ woman whose face is naught but sour derision and discontentment from the moment she arrives to the second that ape of hers takes her home? Not to mention how _bulky_ her figure's grown."

"No," Gold allowed, eyes dark, "I cannot imagine anyone mistaking you for she."

"Vous sont plus gentile avec moi," Jack replied prettily.

"Miss Clime, I believe that your French is second only to your talent on the stage."

"Le langue est comme une vin bonne pour moi. But what has brought you to my quiet little sanctuary this evening – or is it morning? – if it is not too impertinent to ask, Sir? A young lady alone in the parlor with an unmarried gentleman is not a common sight."

Jack drew to her feet slowly, letting her figure show to best advantage. She thought she might have a new admirer in the notoriously sharp-tongued gentleman, and that was a feather for her cap that even Mrs. Lacey could not emulate.

"Do you know, I've entirely forgotten. I rather think I ought to excuse myself and alert old Henry to the assault carried out on his estate, don't you think?"

"Mr. Millcroft's been abed for ages," Jack objected, setting aside her small sachet of ice. "He's always the first to leave the party after the cigars and brandies have done; I think it'd be a greater crime to go and wake the poor man up."

"Alas, I fear I must. Good night, Miss Clime."

"Call me Jacqueline. Please, there's no need for a lack of familiarity between us."

"I think not," Gold replied, eyeing the little hints of dawn pushing through the gap in the drapes. She followed his line of sight to the cool, pale morning and looked back toward Gold, but he was already gone.

**VIII. Mrs. Millcroft**

Cora shuffled through the papers her husband always left strewn about the library, shifting through sheaves of notes on the Greeks, income figures, lines of Latin, and the little continental correspondences he kept-up in an amateurish fascination with the ever-expanding habitats of English roses. It was nearly breakfast, not that anyone would be awake for hours – some of her guests might not even be abed yet, if she was frank – and certainly none of them would be up for mid-morning deer stalking.

No, she rather expected that the eggs and sausages would be a dull affair, with perhaps a light tea taken as the grooms saddled their mounts. She decided to double her order of cakes for the ladies – they'd be famished by the time the men were finished parading up and down the gravel and finally left them to their parlors for the afternoon.

The usual program of merriment and sport allowed her plenty of time to tend herself, perhaps even to tempt one of Sir James' young ne'er-do-wells to her chambers, yet just as she'd been preparing to retire, there had been such a riot through her house that the usual routine became untenable. As the sun rose on the county, she'd had no choice but to abandon her pleasure and seek out her sleepy-eyed husband.

If he was not snoring in his own quarters or in the parlor where he tended to nod off as the gossip turned to beaus and officers, then he ought to have been in his library. Yet the library was precisely where he was not, though the writing desk certainly looked as though it had been strewn about since she last saw it. It was certainly unlike Henry to remain awake until early morning, not even for his dratted English roses and Lake Poets.

Cora required only two services of her husband - to post her letters and to interfere with their guests as little as possible. A mob in the entry hall, however, demanded his attentions - suppose something peculiar had transpired and she missed it? Cora did not appreciate guesswork as to the highlights and scandals of her own parties. That was the benefit of going out-of-pocket for the gentry: one always knew a thing or two about the drunken passions, loyalties, and proclivities of one's guests.

The uproar must not remain a mystery.

"Henry?" she called, hearing rushed footsteps in the corridor. "Mr. Millcroft, is that you come at last? I'll have your valet flogged for taking so long to fetch you. I've been all about the house searching, I'm practically exhausted!"

She listened again, and thought she heard the lilt of a cane upon the carpets.

"Mr. Gold, come in here," she tried again.

Of all the gentlemen with whom she'd been intimately acquainted, Gold had been her only regret. They'd nearly formed an attachment after his divorce, but he'd hardly deigned to kiss her hand since she'd wed Henry, and that was a pity; they might have found out every dark corner of the manor and been content in their secrecy.

The door opened more swiftly than she'd expected as the filthy-rich sod stormed in.

"Where is your husband, Madame? Quickly, if you please."

"I've spent the last half hour asking precisely the same question," Cora sighed, tossing Mr. Millcroft's papers into the bin for good measure.

"We must find him immediately – I suspect that Sir James means to duel and kill Colonel Lacey!"

"Speak sensibly," Cora demanded. "They cannot be stupid enough to draw pistols on the pavement like common highway men."

"That is precisely what I mean," Gold snarled. She'd never seen him so frantic, so nearly unhinged – by passion or mania, she could not tell.

"Well then go out and stop them!" Cora shrieked. She liked a rowdy party, but a body – a murder – would topple her every ambition, lay waste to every hope and dream.

"Damn it, woman, there's naught to be done without the landowner's condemnation! Shall I shamble outside and shoot the pair of them? Where is your husband?"

"I don't know!" she shouted back at him. "Henry? HENRY!"

"I'm here," came a drowsy voice from the adjoining study. Cora watched with roiling contempt as her sleepy-eyed husband shambled out of his chair by the fire place and padded into the library.

"Didn't you hear me calling for you!?" she snapped at him. "There's to be a duel in the garden, you must stop them! Well don't just stand there gaping like a trout, Mr. Millcroft, hurry!"

"Now, Cora…" Henry began, with his usual good-natured patience and utter lack of energy.

"He's a wife to think of!" implored Gold, rushing to her husband's side.

"I know," Henry sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

"It will ruin everything," Cora wept, dropping to her knees, pressing her bosom to his leg. "Be brave – be brave for Gina's sake."

"I am," Henry replied, looking down at her with a firm face. "By God, I am. And for the sake of my daughter, a man might die this morning."

**IX. Mr. Gold**

"No," Cora shrieked, and Gold could scarcely believe what he was seeing. "No, Henry, please – think of the wedding! Think of their estates!"

Gold fought the urge to let his temper get the best of him. A man might die – and he very much doubted it would be Sir James, the lad knew his way around a weapon. The Colonel was a contemptible man, but his wife… Mrs. Lacey, the briefest glimpses of her potential had convinced him that someone, anyone, ought to care for her interests for a change.

He could abandon the Millcrofts – mid confession – and perhaps arrive in time to avoid bloodshed, but Neal… He had to control himself, reign in his frustrations, for Neal. The ground beneath him and the air in his lungs might well have turned to fire and hot lead for all the comfort his resolve gave him.

"But she'd be unhappy," Mr. Millcroft replied sadly. "My poor girl, she's so young Cora, and he's… I've given you your way, made you mistress of this household in everything, but I cannot consent to wedding my only child to a widower three times her age."

"He's a general, a Duke!" Cora snarled, rising to her feet.

"She doesn't love him."

"I've endured your objections and meddling, Henry, but do not test me. When Lord Blanchard returns from France—"

"If," said Gold. He exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was coming together, taking shape in his head, but Mrs. Lacey… No, he could not let glittering blue eyes distract him. And a different part, a darker part, thought the absence of her husband might not be such a bad thing.

"If he returns safely," Gold continued. "And you've been seeing to it that Blanchard and his men meet no end of difficulties, haven't you Henry?"

Mr. Millcroft colored, but could not deny it.

"This is absurd!" Cora snarled, her hair coming uncoiled in the frenzy. "You stand in my own house and accuse my husband of treason? You—"

Whatever additional insults Gold was meant to have paid the Millcrofts, he never found out. The sound of two pistols cut through the room, followed by the echoes of shouting and horror, silencing Mrs. Millcroft in the middle of her phrase.

"Well," sighed Henry sadly, "it's done now. The chaps will have ordered up a coach and a doctor, if they've any sense at all, so perhaps it will still turn out well. And I suppose you mean to turn me in, eh Gold? How did you know?"

"I didn't, until a few moments ago. I suspected your wife. I knew there was an informant, someone sneaking information to the French, and hoped very much that the culprit would be in attendance tonight."

"How could you suspect that I—" Cora began, but her husband silenced her with a gesture.

"Elimination and guesswork. I thought it must have been someone who had been here before. Reeve is too base and cowardly, even for a spy; the Colonel is a brute and a brigand, but a patriot in his way; and his wife… his wife doesn't seem…" Gold could scarcely qualify how he'd found Mrs. Lacey above suspicion, it was simply that he'd never seen her so vulnerable and articulate before, and he'd simply known. If she'd meant to bring down the country, it would've been smoldering ash and brimstone by now.

"Lord Nolan is too reserved to play at wars, and Sir James too forward – he's unfocused, and the culprit had to be clever to communicate so quickly without being discovered. The only thing worse than Miss Clime's acting is her French, and besides that I think all of her ambitions lie in London. That only left Cora, so I'll admit, Henry, you've surprised me.

"It's very simply deceiving – you pretend to sleep as the gossip unfolded around you, and as tongues loosen your presences was forgotten entirely. I'd never… War is a very large brush for the delicate shape of assassination, but an efficient one. I'd never have suspected you of anything, except – you see, my own son is in Blanchard's army."

"I never wanted to hurt your son," said Henry, full of apology. "Or anybody, really – only to bide for time. I had to put an end to this engagement, but Blanchard's little girl adores our Gina, and he wouldn't release her. The obligation was too great. I'm sorry."

A page interrupted them, rushing in to whisper something in Cora's ear before departing just as hastily as he came. The men stood silent, their business not meant for the servants.

"Colonel Lacey is dead," Cora announced. "Sir James shot him squarely between the eyes. Lord Nolan has agreed to settle whatever remained of Lacey's debts, in hope of avoiding charges, though I suppose that will come down to the Colonel's wife. Spence would have a better time of it if he'd offered to pay her in barrels of wine, don't you think?"

"Cora, be kind. A man has died," said Henry.

"He'll never take her now," sighed Cora, flinging herself onto a settee. "Even for Lady Mary's sake, he won't tarnish the family name by marrying a girl whose family associates with murderers."

"Indeed," agreed Henry, soberly. "And now, my dear, the High Court awaits me."

"For the sake of our children," said Gold gravely, "good men can do unspeakable things."

"Aye," agreed Henry.

"But you've no further cause to inform against the movement of Blanchard's troops?"

"None."

"How were you able to send word over the channel so quickly?"

"Ah," said Henry with sad eyes. "That's the beauty of the Royal Society – I know a botanist who shares my passion for roses, rather well-placed inside Napoleon's army. Our correspondence slips the barricades, and most turn a blind eye – science has overcome many a war and plague, progress stands without borders so to speak. It even survived the Dark Ages."

"Suppose, then, that your channels were turned to misinformation, that the English got the advantage for a change. And suppose that, in helping thusly, I might get you pardoned for your earlier crimes…"

"I'd owe you my life."

"Yes," agreed Gold, looking Mr. Millcroft squarely in the eyes. "And if my son dies from your refusal to stand up to the likes of Blanchard and your own wife, I plan to collect that debt personally. However… you and your botany are more of a comfort alive than the satisfaction of seeing you hanged. What do you say?"

"We have a deal," nodded Henry.

"Excellent," Gold replied, and they shook hands.

"Now," Gold continued, "take your wife and see to the corpse in your garden. Someone ought to wake Mrs. Lacey."

Cora, still flummoxed and fuming, followed her husband out of the library almost obediently. Gold had no doubt she'd cause a fuss in the future, but – this time, at least – he'd outmaneuvered her and converted an enemy to an ally.

The evening had left him drained, feeling out the edges of shallow, vapid personalities and suspecting the worst of old acquaintances did nothing for his nerves, but the task was complete. He poured himself a snifter of Mr. Millcroft's finest brandy, and dropped with much the same elegance as the shot Colonel Lacey into one of the large wing-back chairs in the study.

He could not muster a single ounce of regret for Colonel Lacey, nor enough energy to properly mourn the loss of sons and daughters for the sake of wanting more. In war and marriage, sacrifices were made – would always be made – and one man's victory was another man's loss. Or woman's loss, he allowed.

Reality weighed heavily on him as he poured the sweet, burning liquid into his mouth, and he knew – without a trace of doubt – that he'd do it all again to bring Neal home safely.

**X. Belle**

Belle discovered Mr. Gold quite accidentally, asleep in Mr. Millcroft's study and holding a half-empty decanter of brandy. It had been a memorable, if tragic, evening for everybody, she supposed, and he – who had been kind to her, more kind than he could possibly know – must have endured his own trials and Odyssey to have come to so undignified a close.

She hadn't meant to rouse him; she'd planned only to find a quiet space to appear to mourn. George loathed her reading, and blamed it for every fault and flaw he found (or invented) in her. Still, she could not be glad he'd died – no death was wanted – and she felt a bit guilty as a smile played up in the corner of her mouth.

Imagine two, or perhaps three, whole years of mourning. No guests, no parties, no lecherous Sir Reeve… only herself, at home, with books to read. It was ungenerous and uncharitable of her, yet – even with funeral arrangements still left to settle – she was smiling through the ache. She liked books – she used to love them – and here she was, in one of the finest libraries in the county, as a starving man before a feast with no idea where to begin. A novel, maybe?

She would pick one, somehow, and she'd begin to read; she'd take her tea in the nice set that belonged to her mother – the fleur-de-lis style that George loathed to see and threatened to shatter like a bully – and never have the maids box it away again. It seemed such a small luxury, an unworthy dream in the wake of death and dueling, but it was hers – one of the few things she knew she liked, prior to matrimony.

She giggled at then, despite herself, and that giggle awoke Gold – much to the gentleman's dismay.

"Mrs. Lacey?" he asked, taken aback.

"Call me Belle," she replied without thinking.

He gazed quizzically at her.

"I know it's too familiar. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry George is dead, truly I am, but I can't abide being Mrs. Lacey again."

"A mixed-mercy, then," he said, voice neutral. "You have my condolences, however unnecessary."

"You must think I'm wretched," Belle sighed, tears pooling in her eyes. She knew she was smiling, and that she shouldn't be, but she'd lost all sense of self-mastery.

"No," he replied as his eyes schooled on her face, his own face softening in reply. "Before I knew you, perhaps, but no longer. I think you must be very kind, to have been so sad and still shed tears for a man who struck you."

"How do you—"

"Because he struck Miss Clime, mistaking her for you I believe. That's what started it, so – in the conventional ways – I suppose James had the right. I tried to prevent it, but I cannot say that I am over-sorry at the outcome. You seem a woman reborn."

"But not a kind one," Belle replied. "I don't know why I'm crying. It's not sadness, not solely. I'm just so relieved not to have to pretend any more, but I don't suppose that's something you can understand. Gentlemen always do as they like, don't they?"

"Not as often as you'd expect," he said. The sadness in his eyes spoke loudest of all, and Belle reached out to take his hand. If they were both adrift, then let them be bereft together and sod the cause.

"Playing the part, wearing a masque… it's a bit like navigating a room strewn with hot coals and broken glass, isn't it?" Gold asked, making no move to acknowledge her small, pale hand on his larger, dark one.

"It can be, yes," she told him.

"It's exhausting; I don't know how you could have done it for so long without shattering. You must be very bright, very resilient."

"You're probably the only one who thinks so."

"The rest of them are fools, then." Mr. Gold's finger moved a fraction of an inch, lacing through her own, and their eyes met – blue to brown – as the pair of them reveled in the tiny miracle of joining hands.

A noise in the hall disturbed them, and they moved apart at last.

"You must summon me," he said, righting his jacket, waistcoat, and sagging cravat. "If ever you have any need, any desire to see me… Belle, I am yours to command."

Belle thought she'd like that.

**Fin.**


End file.
